


Fallen From Grace

by AndiiErestor



Series: Oracle of Imladris [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bad Things Happen when Maeglin runs away, Elves can sleep for a decade or two right?, Erestor does get chained up for about a week, Erestor doesnt sleep that long, Erestor is young af, Erestor suffers ALL the consequences, Gen, Grief Coma, I'm Sorry, M/M, Maeglin is a literal fuck, according to some game developers they can sleep for 3000 years, also Glorfindel was pulled off a cliff by the hair by a monster made mostly of fire, but he sleeps very long anyway, but there will be one eventually, sort of torture i suppose, sweet boychild, the poor boy is going to be very sad at the end of this, this probably won't have the sort of happy ending you want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-02 02:57:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16778224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndiiErestor/pseuds/AndiiErestor
Summary: After the fall of Nargothrond, Erestor - like most of the survivors - must find a new home for himself. Luckily for him, he has family left in Gondolin.This story follows the start of his new life, in a city not long left standing...And what comes after.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peasantswhy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peasantswhy/gifts), [Dalandel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dalandel/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Return to Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13130250) by [peasantswhy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peasantswhy/pseuds/peasantswhy). 



> A huge huge HUUUUUGE thanks to peasantswhy for letting me use bits and pieces (sometimes very large pieces) of his fic to develop these headcanons) and dalandel for all the encouragement and inspiration.
> 
> Thank you both so much. This is for you.

_Run._

_Run and find your grandfather,_ she signed to me, tears streaming down her face. She kissed my cheek before running back to find my father, and that was the last I ever saw of her.

I did run. I found a young girl I had met at the beginning of my studies, the daughter of my mother's assistant. We ran together for a while, darting from one building to the next, hiding behind bushes and open doors, but she left me as well.

 _I need to find my father_ , she said to me. _I need to know that he is well_ , and that's the last I saw of her. I didn’t look back as she ran toward her home as I did not wish to see what may befall her.

 _Run and find your grandfather_ , the words echoed in my mind as I hid, cowering behind rubble and bushes as I contemplated the road ahead.

As far as any of us knew, my grandfather was in the undying lands, and I certainly couldn’t sail there alone. My only hope would be to make a home for myself in one of the other elven kingdoms – if I was even admitted there.

Suddenly, a loud rumbling came from above, and rafters from the building next to me as well as stalactites came crashing down…

* * *

Erestor shot up in bed, back straight, chest heaving for breath. _Again_.

The nightmares had been coming less frequently of late, but refused to abandon him completely. Always, in some way or another after a long day of work, he would dream of the fall of his home. A great cloud hung over him whenever it happened, but he assumed it to be loss and grief, for he’d dedicated so much of his short life to studies and work and travelling, travelling, _travelling_ , that he’d hardly given himself time to mourn properly.

After the fall of Nargothrond, the few survivors spread across the land. Some headed south to the mouths of Sirion. Many went north-west to Nevrast. Some visited with the men of Brethil, in hopes of gaining access to Doriath. It took about a year of searching the woods and waiting before the people of Nargothrond were greeted. The hospitality, however, was short-lived, and the stay was shorter still, for the elves of Nargothrond were hardly welcome in those lands.

No more than a fortnight after their arrival, all those who couldn’t be traced back to some distant ancestry relating to anyone in the kingdom of Doriath were asked to leave with the next shipment of good to Gondolin. From there, many chose to make their way west, or even south, for _all_ knew that king Turgon would allow none to leave, who had entered.

Erestor, alone though he was, had relished the idea of building a life for himself where none would have known him. He was young, yes, but the high king would no doubt have the resources in his city for his people to learn – as they would be unable to travel to do so – and as such, Erestor expected only to find the best in order to grow further. He wished he’d had any sort of formal documentation regarding his previous studies, and the few times he’d worked with his mother, but everything was lost in the fall.

As it were, many had heard of the incoming arrival of a party of refugees from Nargothrond, and as the news came only a few days after the bird carrying information about the fall of the city, the populace were even more curious about the new arrivals.

_Surely they knew they couldn’t leave again?_

_What were they all like?_

Kindred they all were, but grown far apart with Turgon’s hostility.

The trade route was long and full of detours, but eventually the people of Nargothrond arrived, greeted with no fanfare, but with curious looks and a suspicious lack of mirth. The group, small as it had grown, were led to the hall of the king, where many of the lords of his houses were gathered, as well as some of the eldest folk of the hidden city of stone. There were records of course, but it was a secret to no one that the high king’s records hadn’t been updated since the construction of the city, and so their best hope of finding any living relatives was to speak to the folk who knew their families’ histories best.

Many were lucky enough to be paired off with a distant relative – that meant a home and food and some hand-me-down clothes, until they could get back on their feet and start working. Most _weren’t_ so lucky, but none were turned away if they could work – and they could.

As for Erestor…

It still felt like a dream some days, how a ellon who looked not-unlike his own father, stepped up to him so slowly, his hands in the air and shaking, even as he came close enough to hold the young elf’s face. The elder seemed almost a frail dying old man as he beheld the face of his grandson, and named him.

How the stranger had known his name, Erestor had yet to understand, but he recognized the eyes that welled with tears at seeing him as his own, and nodded his head silently, before pressing their foreheads together in a prayer of thanks.

Valóron spoke then to the king, and urged Erestor to introduce himself, though he was nearly too awed to do so properly. The boy stammered and stripped over his words, bowing before the king and then kneeling, and then bowing again. He came to understand then that his grandfather – _his grandfather, truly_ – remained very humble, despite having formed a goodly friendship with the king in the journey to the vale within the encircling mountains, not to mention the building of Gondolin itself. They spoke not often, as close friends or family, but king Turgon remembered his face and his name, and the good deeds he had done.

It was this way that the high king came to learn that the excellent penmanship he had the honour of responding to when writing to his cousin in the south, had belonged to Erestor’s mother. And at the mention of her, tears sprung to his eyes, for the pain of her loss was yet an open wound upon his heart. Erestor was excused from the discussion then, as Valóron and Turgon and many – but not all – of the lords of Gondolin spoke of mourning and of welcome and of the possibilities of the future.

* * *

So it came to pass that Erestor of Nargothrond was accepted amongst the people of Gondolin, and reunited with what little family he had left, and this was a joyful occasion. A feast was held one month hence for the arrival and reuniting of the peoples of the Noldor, and though many hearts were yet heavy, their voices arose in song and their forms quickly swayed in dance.

Erestor joined the ranks of the scribes of the city, not only satisfied to learn the trade, but took up most of his spare time creating new documents from memory – copies of what he had seen in Nargothrond. Eventually, so too did he visit other refugees to take note of all that he could, to add to the archives of the hidden city, and his efforts were rewarded generously.

Not a decade after completing his studies and being admitted to the ranks of the scribes was his presence requested by the king himself. A meeting was called and Erestor readily answered. Up and dressed and hair braided earlier than he’d ever been up, for he’d hardly slept the night previous, Erestor was heading to the tower of the king.

There he met with the high king Turgon, lady Idril, lord Tuor, and lord Maeglin. The royal family, assembled before him, and Erestor suddenly – irrationally – began to worry that his work hadn’t been appreciated, that he’d overstepped and would be dismissed, or worse.

Until the high king spoke.

Maeglin disappeared a few months back to oversee some new mining endeavors on the edges of the city’s limits. This Erestor remembered. And now that Maeglin had returned from where he had been, he had dismissed Galion – his previous seneschal - and now wished to employ a new one.

Luckily for Erestor, this meant advancement, finally, from his studies, to employment. Under Maeglin’s care, Erestor and his grandfather were promised food and better shelter. His grandfather, farmer though he was, was offered a larger plot of land, in exchange for a small percentage of his harvest.

As part of his own engagement, Erestor was to care for the House. He kept records and conferred with Maeglin on where he believed the staff best engaged – not without adding his own embellishments – which thankfully his lord did not refuse him, for the flowers added joy and life to the darkened halls of the house of the mole.

* * *

In the days to come, Erestor was kept busy, running the house of the mole was no small task, and he now held the most of it on his own. With deference to lord Maeglin on the most important subjects concerning finances and staffing, Erestor was given free reign of the house, and under his careful supervision, it grew to be a thriving and lively house once more – as much as the house of the mole could ever be considered lively.

Flowers were added to the halls. Maidstaff were hired, and once again the heavy curtains were dusted and opened, along with the windows, to let out the musty scent of a closed off living space, and welcome in a fresh breeze. More cooks were hired, and in exchange for goods and services, the staff of the house were not only compensated for their work, but fed as thanks for their time as well. The miners returned home at the end of a shift with a smile on their faces and returned to work on a full stomach.

It came as a surprise to him when lord Maeglin then one day called upon him for a meeting to discuss his work. Ever inclined to worry, Erestor knocked upon the door to Maeglin’s private office and waited patiently until he heard what sounded like “come in.”

He opened the door slowly, poking his head in, and seeing his lord gazing up at the door curiously for only a second to see who had knocked, before returning to the documents on his desk. Erestor took that as his cue to enter. Closing the door once again behind him, Erestor stood before Maeglin’s desk waiting for the opportune moment to speak.

When Maeglin seemed to be between documents, Erestor finally cleared his throat and began, “My lord Maeglin, I believe you called for me but a moment ago, is there anything I can help you with?” And with only a second’s delay, he added, “Please excuse me my lord, but would you quite mind if I pulled back the curtains and opened the windows a bit? The air here is closer than it needs to be, and a light breeze might help to clear your mind as you work?”

Maeglin looked up from his documents and nodded, “Aye, Erestor, I believe that would be for the best.”

And so Erestor scurried forth to do as he had asked, allowing more light in – and noticing that Maeglin immediately put out the candles on this desk for it. _Really_ , _if he was working by candle light at mid-day with the sun so high, truly my lord needs some assistance in remembering himself once in a while,_ Erestor thought.

Finished with his task, the young seneschal once again came to stand before Maeglin’s desk, and this time his lord put his papers down long enough to look at him properly and offer him something along the lines of a smile.

“Thank you,” Maeglin said simply.

Erestor bowed his head and remained quiet, until he realized that his lord intended to say no more, “I’m afraid I don’t understand my lord. T’was but a simple task.”

“Aye, I should elaborate then?” Maeglin teased, but continued without an answer. “I was under the impression that you knew your work here to be appreciated,” Erestor nodded humbly, “and so I never thought there to be a need for such formalities, but it seems my uncle believes I am neglecting you.”

“I assure you that is not the case, my lord Maeglin,” Erestor bowed his head once again, “I am pleased with my work, and I believe the fruits of my labour have proven it worthwhile alone, though I appreciate the thanks.”

“Aye, that is what I believed as well,” Maeglin said. “Though I can see the merit in saying so.”

Erestor nodded as he listened and took a breath but paused before he spoke, “I would not lie to you my lord, I have often wondered if the amount of change I have brought to your house is not a greater burden to you – that you would not have been better off keeping Galion as your seneschal.”

A shadow passed over Maeglin’s face at his honest words. He seemed far away and lost, but the dark moment was soon gone, and Maeglin brightened. “Ah, a small loss for a greater gain. Erestor, you have been invaluable to me.”

Erestor flushed and offered his lord a smile, “I hope, then, to remain an asset to you and your house in the future.”

* * *

“I was so worried,” Erestor released and breathy laugh as he pulled his hair back to get it out of the way so he could help with the preparation of the food, “I was certain he would fire me, or have me imprisoned.”

Valóron shook his head, “I do not believe that would ever be the case. I do not know anyone else who has cared for Maeglin so lovingly or so well—that takes great care and perception. I noticed the flowers you have placed in every room of the house. The staff have taken notice as well, and are grateful for it I believe, if their smiles is anything to go by.”

Erestor’s face sort of crumples. “He’s… he’s been so kind to me – to us. And it seems like such horrible, terrifying things follow his every step.” He twists his fingers around a button. “I want to be good to him.”

“You are. I can see it. Maeglin’s been more at peace than I’ve seen him in a long time.” Valóron cups his face with one hand and Erestor _leans_ into it.

The last of the red-gold light falls down over the mountains, and Valóron set about the room lighting candles. The light from the hearth fire helped, but hardly provided enough for them to see by at the counter. Vegetables were cut, and meat roasted over the fire, and together the young elf and his grandfather sat down for dinner, privately discussing the matter of their day.

Valóron was incredibly proud of his grandson, and made sure to tell him so, though Erestor frequently brushed off the praise, insisting that he was only doing his job, and that he ought to after all the studying he’d done for it.

After dinner, the dishes were washed quickly, and both headed to bed as soon as the fire went out in the hearth, for both had worked long that day, and were looking forward to their rest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be part of the work borrow from peasantswhy. Thank you again for agreeing to be part of this madness.
> 
> Verb tenses were changed as well as cutting out some (lots of) text and rearranging some of it to make sense.

“Such a hardship for me, to have a seneschal who won’t take a day off.” Maeglin gave a mock sigh. “Please tell me you at least have personal plans for the evening. I’d hate to get a reputation for over-working those in my employ.”

Erestor blushed, “I do.”

For many months now, he had been exchanging letters with the lord of the golden flower. _Glorfindel_. And truly, he was infatuated. The lord of the house of the golden flower was a busy elf. Being close to the king, not just in station, but as a friend and as kin, Glorfindel was often running about either in council with the king or seeing to the training of his men or the running of his household – which he mostly managed himself.

Oh but what a noble elf. He _had_ a seneschal of course, but insisted that she not have the same load of work as Erestor himself, which lord Glorfindel had noted as being “barbaric and abusive,” despite Erestor insisting that he enjoyed the challenge of a heavier workload. He found it silly that Glorfindel insisted on describe his work as such, despite him clearly doing the same in his own household.

Erestor had even taken note of several new gardeners in the house of the golden flower, meaning that lord Glorfindel no longer had the time to do so himself – or at least, to do as much as he once might have. And so Erestor had asked him, and the answer had weighed heavily on him, for Glorfindel told him only that more orcs had been spotted about the farthest reaches of the encircling mountains, and this meant that more guards needed posting, and more still required training.

An invitation had been extended to him, on behalf of the lord of the golden flower, to visit his personal gardens some weeks ago, when Erestor had disclosed how such news left him short of breath and worried for the safety of their people. Unfortunately, when the time came, lord Glorfindel sent forth his seneschal to greet Erestor, as he had been called away once again for a last minute council meeting in the tower of the king.

Erestor stayed, as dinner had been prepared and the staff had been instructed – in lord Glorfindel’s absence – to treat Erestor as though he were Glorfindel himself. As such, he was taken to the private gardens of the lord of the golden flower where a table was laid out with sweet meats and greens – most of which had been grown in the very same garden.

He enjoyed his meal very much, and had tried several times to invite the staff to join him for his meal, but all insisted they had other things to attend to, and that they would take their meals just fine when they were ready to do so.

After they had taken away his dishes, a gardener walked over and introduced himself. He explained that while lord Glorfindel was away, he would frequently tend to the lord’s personal garden, despite only having been hired to care for the larger gardens where guests were _usually_ entertained. He explained that he saw it as an honour to do this extra work for his lord, as it meant Glorfindel would have a neat and comfortable place to retire when he finally returned home, without having to worry much about its upkeep.

Together he and Erestor spoke for well over an hour, wandering the gardens and examining the varieties of blooms of the late spring. Erestor learned much that day, about plants and trees and the growing of things. All this he was overjoyed to share with his grandfather over breakfast the next morning. And while he was not distraught to leave after spending a few lovely hours in the gardens of the house of the golden flower, he _was_ disappointed to have yet to meet its lord.

Since then, Erestor had returned many times to visit, although he had yet to be so lucky as to meet the lord of the house. Despite this, he found his time in the gardens to be enlightening. He enjoyed learning from the gardeners about the different flowers his grandfather knew less about, as the growing of vegetables and squash were less for the pleasure of viewing them than they were a means to an end.

Still, every time he went, Erestor hoped once again to catch a glimpse of the lord of the golden flower. He knew he would easily be able to identify him from among his mostly dark-haired staff, but alas, the only blond elves he’d seen had appeared to be visitors or staff themselves.

It had become almost the norm for the people of the house of the golden flower to expect a visit from Erestor every fortnight. And after several more letters to himself from lord Glorfindel, Erestor had begun to understand that the situation outside their borders was growing ever more grim. And Glorfindel, having taken notice from the playful gossip of his staff that Erestor had returned multiple times to visit – and once even to simply bring desserts to the people who greeted him so kindly whenever he came by – had begun to insist that dinner be prepared for Erestor whenever he spent the evening, that they might have a chance to meet finally.

Maeglin smirks. “More gardens, then?”

Maeglin knew. He must have. Erestor knew Maeglin would never doubt his loyalty to the house of the Mole, but his heart clenched in fear. Would he disapprove?

“Perhaps.” Erestor bit his lip, ears burning.

“Well then,” Maeglin’s smirk widened. “How about you take tomorrow off as well? Since you’ve spent all day today working.”

A tremble ran its way up and down his spine. “Thank you, my Lord,” he replied, bowing. “Instead of earning a reputation for harshness, I’m sure you’ll earn a reputation for being too generous.”

The smile fell from Maeglin’s face.

Through the window the sun broke through the clouds and for a moment the light behind him shrouded his face in shadow. When Erestor managed to catch his eyes again there was a wild glint in his eyes, a sharpness in the creases around his temples. He seemed to have forgotten he even has a face as his expression slid down into a hollow blankness.

* * *

As per his routine now, Erestor left the house and went home to change. It was early still, as Maeglin had all but pushed him out of the house. Whatever his lord had planned, Erestor knew not, but excited as he was to visit the gardens again, he didn’t ask.

Erestor entered his grandfather’s home in a whirlwind of excitement. _Today,_ he thought. _Today, I shall meet him._

And so placing his satchel on his bed, he promptly stripped and ran a damp cloth over himself for a quick rinse before dressing again, this time in his best robes. Dark blue, the colour of the sky when the stars came out at night. The hair at his temples was tied back in two simple braids behind his head, leaving the rest down.

_Ai, I do hope this will work out once and for all._

And with a smile and a hug to his grandfather, Erestor was out the door, heading once again to the house of the golden flower, intent on meeting its famous lord, but that was not to be. Though he was greeted by gentle smiling faces of the seneschal and other members of the staff, Erestor nodded somewhat sadly.

He understood.

Glorfindel was not home.

No bother. Erestor would stay and wander the gardens for a bit. He had begun to enjoy reclining against the silver willow with a book, or side by side with one or a few of the gardeners, listening to their tales about how the city was founded and their struggles to grow flowers in a city of stone. This time, however, in his excitement to meet with lord Glorfindel, he’d decided to leave his satchel on his bed at home, and his book in it.

Dinner was served about the same time as usual, just before the sun set, and for once some of the staff dared to join him. It was a joyful event, though still lonely from where he sat, but he strived not to make his feelings shown lest he ruin the evening for the rest of them.

Done with his meal, Erestor stood and thanked everyone for the meal and their company before venturing deep into the gardens. He walked for the better part of an hour, until the stars were high in the sky – or should have been – but the sun seemed to be rising again already, and that simply should not be.

With a light frown on his face, Erestor headed back toward the main gardens, entering the house from the back, and heading down the long hallways to the front, approaching the main hall when –

The front door slammed open.

Erestor started, looking around the corner. “Hello?” he called, worry lining his brow.

A messenger, covered in fine white dust, sprinted inside to where Erestor was standing. She gulped at air like a beached fish, managing, “My Lord—the city—”

Erestor grasped her shoulders, holding her upright, “The city?”

He heard the seneschal’s steps as the elf ran up from behind him to see what was happening.

Tears stream down her face. “Morgoth—we’ve been _found—”_

* * *

> Erestor turned and sprinted down the wing, past the collapsed messenger out the door. Out the door onto the street.
> 
> And he looked to the north wall, there was a great groaning wail coming from the wall, the red light of a thousand fires burning up like sunset, like blood in the sky—people ran through the streets, ran to their Houses to find shelter and safety, everyone was _screaming—_ and there was something long and sickly purple climbing up over the wall and it opened its mouth and there was a high whistle, like a bird dying, and it wretched a stream of fine, thin fire over the battlements and into the crowd below.
> 
> Erestor watched, frozen for a few brief moments, before turning away, leaping down the avenue and into the crowd, his robe spilling out behind him.
> 
> The screaming rose fever-hot, striking hot in the street and in the echoing arches of the fountains—glass shattered around the crowd of people trying to find shelter and already there were people on fire, stumbling to the fountains and there was a _dead body,_ someone wearing Rog’s colors who had slit her own throat—
> 
> “... but listen, if Gondolin falls,” _if Gondolin falls?_ Erestor panted as he leaned against one of many burning buildings, listening to a desperate elf-maid speaking to her son across the street. The boy seemed no older than Erestor himself. “If you need to get out of the city, then there is a secret way. Idril built a tunnel into the rock just west of here, near Ecthelion’s fountain. Look for the sign of the wing, there will be a way there—look for it, promise me—”
> 
> Erestor put his head down and _ran._ This was like Nargothrond all over again.
> 
> The House of the Mole was _teeming_ with soldiers, with more soldiers than Erestor had ever seen at his house, all arrayed in dark steel and pitch-colored banners. Erestor threaded his way through the throng, searching for his master in the sea of unfamiliar faces _where had all these people come from?_
> 
> He found Maeglin standing in the middle of his armory, an elf he didn’t know buckling on the final straps of his breastplate. Around him others swirled, sharpening spears with a sick _schlickschliiiiiik,_ their faces grim and their eyes alight with—what was shining in their eyes, what was happening here—
> 
> “My Lord!” Erestor calls, coming to stand before him.
> 
> Maeglin turned to him and smiled, “Ah, Erestor. Did you enjoy your time at the House of the Golden Flower?”
> 
> Erestor startled—it was such an odd thing to ask. “What do you require of me, my Lord?”
> 
> “Oh, I think you’ve done quite enough, thank you.” Maeglin noded. The unknown elf clasped his cloak around his shoulders and stood to the side, waiting. Maeglin gestured to him. “Take half and circle around to the House of the Pillar, but don’t attack until my word arrives. If we can hold the fountain we’ll be able to take the Royal House—and remember, if anyone comes upon _any_ member of the Royal Family, they are to be taken _alive._ If this order is disobeyed then I will disembowel the offender _myself._ ”
> 
> The world shrank to a single thread, then snapped. “My—my Lord?” Erestor whispered. “What do you _mean?_ ”
> 
> And when Maeglin turned back to him Erestor didn’t know his face anymore. His smile clawed over his features, more bared teeth than joy and his eyes were wrong somehow, deeply _wrong—_ Where was the Lord who looked on him in fondness? Who was this—
> 
> And Maeglin snapped forward with one iron hand, grasped Erestor by the throat, and pinned him to the wall.
> 
> Erestor could only let him, could only scramble weakly for the thin strand of air Maeglin allowed him, his legs buckling—
> 
> Maeglin pressed close. “You never told me, Erestor,” he purred. “Did you enjoy yourself at the House of the Golden Flower?”
> 
> Erestor whimpered— _what do you mean what’s going on—_
> 
> “I never thanked you properly, for keeping dear Lord Glorfindel so occupied.” His smile twisted. “Awfully convenient for me. Did you know, I had originally intended you for Salgant?” Maeglin lifted his other hand to trace down the side of Erestor’s face, to rub his thumb against his neck in a manner reminiscent of a lover.
> 
> Erestor lurched back but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to escape— his hands scraped at Maeglin’s arms, his breastplate but it was no use—
> 
> Maeglin’s voice dropped low, tender, “You were such a find, when my uncle introduced us. Such a pretty thing, buried away. You were too good to be true—attractive and innocent enough that when people looked at me they saw _you,_ your influence. The seneschal is the face of the House and you, my lovely one, make me look tender and sweet, pure as a dove. Of course, others knew you differently, didn’t they? And, of course, Salgant needed convincing, so what better way to seduce him over to my way of thinking than to give him a _present—_ Two goals accomplished in one. But then, of course, a much bigger fish arrived and took my bait.”
> 
> A high whine choked Erestor’s throat and he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t— _what is he talking about—_
> 
> Around them soldiers ready for war, faceless elves he’d never met before drawing their swords and Maeglin just _kept talking,_ licking his cracked lips even as his words foamed at the edges of his mouth. “Glorfindel was never going to join, no, but _keeping him distracted,_ yes, that I could do, and if Glorfindel was blind then Ecthelion and Egalmoth would become blind too—a fourth of the Gondolindrim blinded by a pretty elf with an _easy reputation_. Blind to what was under their feet this whole time, blind to the danger creeping over the mountains, blind to _me,_ to what I _am—_ and all I had to do was blind _you,_ toss you a few crumbs of praise and you were _utterly devoted,_ Erestor—” Words spilled out of him like he couldn’t help himself, like he was bleeding from his throat—
> 
> Erestor _keened,_ struggling against that stranglehold, gasping for air, _no nono it’s not true no what have I done no_
> 
> “Hush Erestor,” Maeglin loosened his grip by a fraction, “Don’t hurt yourself, my pet. You’ve done so well. You’ve done so well for me.” He tucked Erestor’s hair back behind his ear, caressing. “I can’t thank you enough. You were so good. You were just what I needed.”
> 
> Erestor looked full into that face and something cracked. Maeglin was overrun now, his eyes red-rimmed and there was something like a black thread, thin as a spider’s leg, branching up his skin over the collar of his tunic.
> 
> “Just what I needed,” he repeated, whispering. Then he leaned forward and kisses the corner of Erestor’s mouth. “You were so good to me. Thank you, Erestor.”
> 
> Erestor trembled, sobs caught under Maeglin’s fist.
> 
> The crack in his face repaired itself. Maeglin smirked. “Now my pretty pet, if you’re _extra_ good I’ll give you a treat—I’ll give you to Salgant after all, but only if you’re well-behaved. Understood?”
> 
> He didn’t wait for an answer before yanking Erestor away from the wall, removing his grip on Erestor’s throat and tangling it up in his hair instead. He hauled Erestor deeper into the depths of the armory, away to the back storeroom. Erestor dug his heels in, desperate, but Maeglin’s grip was strong and when Erestor fell to his knees he didn’t care, he kept pulling until Erestor felt like he was going to pull his skin off— _no no no—_ and Maeglin just dragged his body along the floor to the back room.
> 
> The inside of the storeroom had been transformed—all the heirlooms and treasures of the House of the Mole were stacked on sturdy shelves, safe and protected by thick stone. A barred window, high on the far wall, was the only opening to the city. Maeglin pulled him to an empty wall and it was only then that Erestor noticed the line of chained collars bolted to the stone.
> 
> “ _No,_ my Lord, _no—”_ Erestor yanked back, his hair tearing, and reached for the doorway but Maeglin overpowered him and jerked him over to the chains.
> 
> “Hush Erestor, this is for your own good.” He locked a heavy iron collar around Erestor’s neck with a _click!_ It was tight and cold, Erestor couldn’t breathe—“You’ll be safe here. After I have control of the city I’ll come back for you.”
> 
> Then he stood and stepped away, out of Erestor’s reach, and walked out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: A great majority of the work in this chapter belongs to peasantswhy and is taken directly from "Return to Me." He is aware and willing.
> 
> Some parts were added by myself. Verb tenses were changed to fit with the story. I have not included blockquotes in this chapter as my additions are to small and spaced out and would have made the reading of it far too troublesome.
> 
> This is NOT the last chapter.

Erestor didn’t remember much of the first day, only that he was delirious with fear.

The sounds of war echoed through the little window, magnified by the stone of the storeroom—his racing pulse beating up against the iron collar, so loud, too loud, he’d worn his fingernails down to the quick tearing at this collar, at the stone walls, the floors—

The screaming didn’t die down, only, after a while, it cut ragged and hoarse. The crunch of steel and the waves of voices got closer, then receded, chased off by something _(some_ things, _there were more of them)_ that howl, that pant and lap up the blood, things that scraped at the window with their claws, smelling. Someone died in front of the little window and blocked the light, leaving Erestor with only the echoing sound of his breathing in the locked room, the feeling of blood beginning to bead up from his raw neck. He would have ripped strips of fabric from his robe to stop the bleeding, but the sound of tearing fabric _hurt_ him, somehow.

He was going mad. He was going to break in half and all the things inside him were going to spill out like an egg yolk on the ground and he was not going to die, no, that was too good for him how could he not have known, how could he have not seen through Maeglin he should have known he should have said something he should have known how could he have been so _blind_ —

_Such a pretty thing such a pretty present you’ve done so well you were so good_

Blood dripped down from the window and seeped into his robes and hair.

_What have I done by the gods what have I done_

Sometime the next morning a guard opened the door to toss Erestor some bread and a skin of water before leaving him alone again.

He didn’t return. No one returned.

Days pass, maybe weeks.

Erestor wasted away, only barely managing to keep himself together by rubbing one of the other collars against the chain bolting him to the wall, filing down the links.

Then the space outside the window went completely quiet, like someone had sucked all the air out of the whole world and _then_ there was the _sound_ , the sound like rock cracking and popping, a sound like footprints, and the body outside the window dissolved into charcoal and the stone became unbearably hot and the chains, the collar around his neck _burned_ and he jerked back, watching the iron closest to the wall turn _pink_ and he choked, scrambling away from the wall, the iron—

And something _laughed,_ a laugh like a whip crack—

And Erestor _screamed,_ scrambling back—the weakened links, now hot— _so hot too hot I am going to burn alive_ —snapped open and Erestor threw himself into the far corner, treasure and gold falling around him from the overturned shelves and something _reached_ through the window, it had hands, huge cracked hands like logs on fire and it _ripped_ the stone away, it was laughing, _laughing—_

 _Come here, little mole,_ it said. _Come here, you tasty, pretty thing._

Something dripped through the window and sizzled on the ground, it was _drooling_ it was _hungry_ and Erestor closed his eyes.

There was a scream from outside.

And, as quickly as it arrived, the balrog turned away, its attention drawn elsewhere.

Erestor lay limp in the wreckage of the storeroom for what seemed like days before realizing that there was now a hole in the wall, big enough to fit through.

He blinked.

Then he hauled himself up and _launched_ himself at the window, clawing, the length of chain still attached to his throat catching on the twisted metal bars but he grit his teeth and _pulled,_ pulled _up,_ and then he was out, out on the street—

The city was in ruins.

The tower of the Royal House was split, half crumbled away and smoking like a chimney. Rubble strewn over the street rose like small mountains, crushing buildings and carts and _people,_ he could see limbs and naked bones jutting out at odd angles beneath wooden beams and stained stones. Most of the other houses were destroyed as well—not even the House of the Mole had been spared, the great black banners stripped from their spires.

Erestor could only guess at Maeglin’s fate.

The street was mostly empty, the fighting carrying on further away. He saw the balrog hunched over a few blocks away, as big as a house, crunching down with jagged teeth on a small, mangled form.

Erestor fleed.

_West of here, the sign of the wing, the sign—_

He curled the length of chain from his neck around his hand to keep it from dragging behind and _ran,_ ran past the crumbling houses, past the dead strewn in the street to the west side of the city, past the center circles where the battle still raged thick. He paused only to dunk his head in a fountain, gulping down filthy water like a dog. He retched, the first swallows burning back up his throat, but he kept the next few down well enough.

No one stopped his progress. He saw orcs in the distance, the snaking tail of a dragon curling around a corner, but was able to avoid them. Morgoth’s forces must have been nearly done gutting the city—already carrion birds lined the avenues, enjoying their meals in peace.

He searched for the wing but also for that _hair,_ his eyes snagging over the dead for any sign of that beautiful golden hair underneath the blood and gore. He didn’t know whether or not he should look, if his heart would be able to take it should he find Glorfindel—find him _dead,_ but he couldn’t stop.

None of the bodies he saw had that shade of golden hair— _praise the gods_ —at least not yet. He didn’t think of hope, couldn’t allow himself to think of hope— at least _not yet—_

And if he found him alive? What would Glorfindel think of him then—Maeglin’s _pretty pet?_ What would he think when he knew what Erestor’s blindness and ignorance had wrought upon their city?

Erestor clenched his jaw. Glorfindel deserved to know.

And— and Erestor wouldn’t protest when he left, wouldn’t say anything in his defense when Glorfindel told him that he hated the sight of him.

And he’d be _thankful_ for it, thankful to see Glorfindel walk away from him hale and whole and _alive,_ he’d spend the rest of his life on his knees in praise and thanks to whatever powers allowed Glorfindel to _live._

The chains bit into his hand and he didn’t care.

The sign of the wing appeared over an open door tucked into the corner of a back alley, invisible to any who weren’t actively looking for it. He ducked inside what looked to be an ordinary storeroom save for the thin archway in the back, leading to a tunnel cutting deep in the mountains.

The tunnel was deep and dark. There was no light in the tunnel, none save the dim greyness of the storeroom petering out in the gloom.

But Erestor knew enough of tunnels underground to know the air was clear, and that the movement of the breeze coming from the tunnel meant that it was open and solid. He placed the hand not holding his chain on the wall and stepped forward.

The floor was smooth and sure. Erestor counted his steps, old habits keeping his mind from falling into the darkness of the tunnel. The sounds of the city faded away behind him, and for the first time since he last spoke to his grandfather he felt a sputtering spark of hope, blinking out beneath the weight of everything, mingled with the grief of loss.

 _Grandfather_ …

He stumbled over something soft, yielding. He leaned down and felt the outline of a face, of a body. It— _him?_ —was already cold, the blood at its waist tacky. Someone, at least, had been down this way.

Erestor stepped over the body and moved on.

By his count he’d walked a few leagues or so when the blackness of the tunnel hinted grey. He slowed his steps, unsure. In the tunnel it would be easy to know of anyone’s approach, to hear the echo of footsteps and breathing. Now, in the open—there would be no warning.

He clenched his hand around the chain and pushed forward.

The tunnel opened up at the foot of a gorge, a steep trail cut in the cliffs leading up and away over the mountains, curling back and forth along the side of the gorge.

And _there—_ if he looked up through the mists lining the peaks— a flash of blue, of gold.

His breath froze in his throat. A band of a hundred elves, maybe more, strung out along the path. They clung close to the rock, inching forward like a caterpillar to freedom. They looked so fragile, like a wisp of silk floating in the breeze, like anything could come and snatch them from the air.

His heart leapt— _some_ people made it, there was yet hope.

Still, he hesitated. News of Maeglin’s treachery would have spread through the city by now. They would know who he is, whom he followed. A chain around his neck wouldn’t endear him to them.

He stepped out from the safety of the tunnel. He’d follow a distance behind, wait to see who yet lived— _Glorfindel, if Glorfindel lives, he needs to know_ —and decide then.

He began to scale the steep path, cleaving close to the cliff side. If he looked up he could see the fluttering flower-shapes of the elves above, tiny pinpricks of brightness. The wind whiped around him, sending his torn robes flapping out over the edge of the path. The iron at his neck burned cold, scraping away his skin. He pressed his head down and climbed.

Snatches of sound came to him across the wind, a high crystal sound, like broken glass.

He looked up.

And _oh,_ oh _no—_

A balrog, like a great, smoldering bat, crept down the side of the cliff towards the clustered refugees. The sound, the sound of screaming, tore by him on the wind. Erestor could see the balrog settle down on the path, could see its thick haunches squat as it surveyed its feast. It laughed, its great whip snaking out behind it like a dragon’s tongue, crackling like lightning.

Erestor cowered in the shadow of the cliff, unable to tear his eyes away. They were _doomed—_ and to have come so far and yet face destruction, face the devouring maw of Morgoth—

And _there—_

A tiny figure stood in front of the assembled group, his sword raised high, his shining, _golden_ hair streaming out behind him—

_No nono no—! Glorfindel—no—_

To have come so far still looking for him, still hoping for him, and now this. Erestor’s heart rejoiced and wept all at once, for he could see how this would end. He was sure of it.

And too sure also was he, upon seeing that head of golden hair, of what he’d known all along without daring to hope. _Glorfindel_ … Glorfindel would be the only one for him, and he would lose his other half before ever claiming him for his own.

The familiarity between them in their correspondences had grown so quickly, as though they were old friends instead of simple associates at work. The similarities in their interests. The _peace_ that Erestor had felt from the first moment he stepped foot in the house of the golden flower, he simply could not describe, but it was _there_ , and now he knew why.

It was Glorfindel, all along, as it could have been no other, and would be no more after today.

He could feel it already, the numbness filling him, enveloping his limbs. His chest rose and fell with heavy gasps, and yet, it felt as though he breathed no air at all. His eyes were wide and glassy as he stared ahead, hoping against all hope that Glorfindel would live.

The balrog chuckled and it was a sound of sick delight, a sound like a mountain crumbling but Glorfindel didn’t waver, only strode forward with sure feet and purpose and _this,_ this was _worse_ than finding him dead in the street— _watching_ him _die_ , watching— finding him alive only to lose him—

The balrog drew back its whip and Glorfindel darted forward, slicing down. At first it looked like his strike was in vain but no, a bright white line opened in the balrog’s wing, then another in the opposite wing, near the elbow joint. The balrog howled, twisting and failing to catch the streak of gold pricking its hide and Erestor couldn’t believe what he was seeing—

One wing hung limp, scraping on stone. At this distance it looked as small as a sparrow’s wing, Glorfindel’s lithe form no larger than a cricket. Erestor couldn’t move couldn’t breathe couldn’t think, could only _hope—_

The balrog couldn’t seem to unfurl its whip to its full length with the sheer cliff at its side, allowing Glorfindel to sneak past its defenses. But the mountain pass was a danger and hindrance for Glorfindel too, and even as his feet danced lightly over the stone there were only a few feet between him and the cliff.

The balrog snapped its teeth, slashed out with its whip and the electric tip licked up the edge of Glorfindel’s wrist—and Erestor could _hear_ Glorfindel’s cry, reedy and thin and so far away, oceans away— Erestor choked, waiting for him to trip, to fall—but Glorfindel’s footing stayed true, and his sword hand was unharmed. As the balrog reared back for another blow Glorfindel darted up, pierced true—and the balrog’s unbroken wing jerked from its socket to hang useless next to its twin.

Erestor looked on in awe. _Could it be? Could Glorfindel actually defeat this foul beast?_

Tears welled up in his eyes, tears of joy, though he knew not to celebrate too quickly, for the battle was hardly won yet, and Glorfindel seemed to be tiring just as much as the beast.

The balrog screeched, stumbled back—and its handhold on the mountain’s side crumbled. Glorfindel retreated. The balrog whirled, unbalanced, but its wings failed and it stepped back on the path once, twice—and then it stepped over open air, over the chasm, and tipped backwards.

The battle couldn’t have been more than a couple minutes long but just like that, the balrog was defeated—crippled and doomed to the abyss—

Erestor’s eyes blow wide— _he won, he lives—_ he sucked in a breath, air in his lungs— _by all the gods he lives!_ He could see Glorfindel’s chest heaving, could see him turn back to his people clutching at his ruined arm but he stood tall, true and _alive_ —

And the balrog fell—

And its clawed hand snapped _up—_

And its hand wrapped around that long, golden hair and yanked Glorfindel back over the cliff.

They fell together.

Those tears fell from his eyes now in great streams, breath gone from his lungs and he _screamed_ —a wounded yet powerful sound from deep within. The sound of a life breaking in two—being torn apart piece by piece.

And then worse.

As he fell, Glorfindel must have heard him, because he looked now—and Erestor could tell he was looking—toward him, his face caught between awe and heartbreak as his golden hair whipped about him, before he bowed his head and closed his eyes. Erestor had one hand pressed to his heart, the other reaching out helplessly—a silent sob hung on his lips.

It all happened so fast.

Erestor stood against that stone face and watched as they hit the rock once, two times before streaking past and shattering at the bottom of the ravine.

_No— please, no—_

Erestor rushed back down the pass, tripping and scraping over the stone, leaving patches of his blood on the path _no no no—_

Glorfindel lay broken at the foot of the path, his golden hair smoldering beneath him.

Erestor dropped heavy to his knees beside him, curling around his body and drawing him up into his lap, hands coming up wet on mangled bone—Glorfindel’s head dropped limp over Erestor’s shoulder, his spine splintered by the fall. He kept twisting at odd angles and Erestor could feel bones grinding up against each other under his hands. _Please, no—_

And finally his cries left him. Erestor knelt with Glorfindel in his arms—his lover. _He should have been his lover._ _They should have been together!_

They _belonged_ together. _Forever_. And yet here they were.

Erestor having betrayed him.

And Glorfindel dead—or dying—in his arms, with nothing for him to do about it.

The strange thing was he was still warm, almost like he’d just come in from the snow and was snuggled up close to get warm again. But the body loses heat fast, and when Erestor reached up to close the half-lidded eyes his skin felt like paper, cool and dry.

Everything in the world had gone silent. Everything in the world had lost its voice.

And that _hair—_ Erestor caressed his face, his hand running back into that golden hair and it crumbled under his touch, falling out in charred clumps on the stone.

Erestor bent over that beloved form and wept.

His voice escaped him in loud bellowing sobs. He was certain their people could hear him from the cliff above. He was certain they watched now and judged. How could such an elf— _traitor!_ —weep like this over the body of one of their fallen—fallen by his fault, his blindness.

Yet so he stayed, and so he _would_ stay, until he could no longer.

Later, the eagles came to take his body back to his people. They regarded him with their cool, sideways glances and their great golden eyes. Erestor stared them down, refusing to let go.

One small, pale eagle, no bigger than a cow, came and sat next to him.

“You love him,” she said, a statement of fact.

Erestor nodded, holding Glorfindel closer.

“We must take him.” She continued. Another statement of fact.

Erestor stayed still and silent.

She reached over with her beak and preened back his hair from his face. Then she nuzzled under his chin, her soft feathers smearing with his blood. “We will take good care of him,” she said, “and we will take you with us, if you permit it.”

Erestor didn’t reply, but he loosened his grip on Glorfindel. Then, carefully, he set Glorfindel on the ground. He took off his thick outer robe and wrapped Glorfindel’s body in it, his skin shuddering in the sudden cold.

The pale eagle watched him. When he was finished, she nodded, “Thank you for watching over him. And thank you for letting us have him.”

A large eagle with sable-tipped wings stepped forward and picked Glorfindel up with his delicate claws. Then he took to the sky, wheeling up to join the group of refugees still huddled at the pinnacle of the pass.

The others joined him, save for the pale eagle. “Do you wish to join them?” she asked.

Erestor shook his head.

“Do you wish me to take you elsewhere?” Her feathers, where they brushed up against his skin, were the only things that felt warm anymore.

He shook his head again. There was nowhere she could take him that would be far enough from the pain in his heart.

The pale eagle stayed for a moment, nuzzling her head under his chin once more until she finally realized he would not change his mind, “I bid you farewell, _sad one_ , for we will not meet again, but know that my heart beats with yours, as does it break for your loss is one greater than most of us know.”

Erestor nodded and his eyes followed her as she pulled back, one hand coming up to press against her feathered cheek. He blinked slowly, as did she in return, before flying away to join the others.

Left alone, now _all_ alone, Erestor felt his strength leave him.

He slipped quietly to lay on his side, staring blankly ahead. Unseeing eyes replayed for him everything he had seen that day: the broken bodies in the streets, the rubble of once great towers and houses, and the blood-filled fountains of Ecthelion. He imagined what the body he tripped over in the tunnel might have looked like, when he was alive. And then—

_And then._

Erestor blinked, and suddenly before his face, he could see the charred clumps of Glorfindel’s hair.

Eyes widened to nearly unseeing once more, a manic grimace on his face, before his buried himself in his arms, crossed on the ground, and screamed into them. He screamed and screamed and _screamed and screamed_ until his throat was raw and he was coughing up blood.

In his delirium he managed to spare a thought for his people—the people who had welcomed him when his home was destroyed years ago. Were they still above, watching him, or had the eagles led them to safety? He hoped that to be the case. The last thing he would want—less than being a traitor—would be for his shouts of misery to attract more trouble to their retreating party.

 _He saw me_ , Erestor remembered, and then too remembered how horrified Glorfindel had been to see him, how heartbroken.

Did his beloved know? Did he know he’d been too ignorant to see the designs of Maeglin’s dark plans? Did he believe Erestor had been privy to them? _Did he believe Erestor had betrayed him?_

Erestor felt a stabbing pain at his heart.

He grasped his chest desperately with one hand, hiding his face in his other arm. A silent scream passed his lips and tears streamed down his face again. _What_ —

_Was this the pain of true heartbreak? Was this what lovers felt when one of them died and cruelly left the other behind?_

No.

Not cruel.

For surely nothing could be so cruel as dying to defend your people, believing your _lover_ had damn you all to eternal hell.

Erestor cried for the loss of his home—again—and for the loss of his family—again—for he had seen the ruins of the house of the mole, and the flaming fields of grain where he had once lived. He cried for his own suffering and for the suffering of his people.

But most importantly, he cried for his broken spirit—his golden flower.

Glorfindel was gone. Too soon. The world would be a grimmer place without him in it, and Erestor wished he could give his own life in exchange of one much more noble than he, but that could not be. Such things were not in his power to command, nor possibly within that of the Valar, for such a thing had never happened before.

And since there was nothing else to do, Erestor simply wept.

He wept until he had no tears left to run, until he would see Glorfindel’s face within his mind and begin weeping again.

He wept and wept and wept—

Until finally, a cold sleep took him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is NOT the last chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one, finally, is all mine.

When Erestor opened his eyes, he was no longer in Gondolin – no longer lying broken at the bottom of mountains surrounding Idril’s pass. He sat up and immediately began to assess his environment.

There _were_ mountains, but in the distance – too far for him to still be anywhere within the encircling mountains. There were trees also, more than he’d seen in his life since the forests of Brethil and Doriath, for the Echoriath kept the valley of Tumladen bare of all else but the toughest of shrubs and grass starved for sunlight and water. These trees were tall – old – and their leaves were a healthy green, like the few that had survived within the walls of the city, in Glorfindel’s gardens – a pang was suddenly at his heart.

Erestor cried out and tears sprung to his eyes again.

 _Glorfindel_.

His love was gone, and his heart with it.

Erestor clutched at his chest frantically with one hand, wishing he could pull the coldness out from within, while his other hand scrambled for purchase in the short grass.

Bright colours assaulted his senses in the form of flowers of even more varieties than the gardens of the house of the golden flower could have ever possessed. Their scents merged all around him, conspiring to choke the breath from his lungs, until…

A tall – _tall_ – figure stood before him, cloaked in white. Erestor whimpered as the figure knelt, and he felt scared. He knew not why, but he felt a presence even greater than that which was before him was watching – _observing_ , _studying, learning_.

The glare of the white robes stabbed at his eyes and Erestor wished it would go away. He wished he could simply lay in peace and live out the rest of his days in silence, for his heart ached, and with it, his spirit – which he knew not how to mend.

Finally, a hand appeared before him and gently touched his cheek, and a voice from above spoke, “Sweet child, will you not let me help you?”

And Erestor’s curiosity was piqued, for certainly this was not his grandfather, though the touch felt so _distant_ yet _familiar_. He squinted and blinked many times rapidly, turning himself to hold his body up on his elbow and tried to accustom his eyes to the blinding light – until at last a cloud passed before the sun, and his vision cleared.

_Irmo._

_Lórien._

_These were_ –

“Yes,” the voice spoke, a bit more softly this time, and one very _large_ hand stroked his cheek still. “These are my gardens. They are not those you wish for – I can tell – but you will find peace here nonetheless.”

Erestor wanted to scoff at the idea of finding peace ever again, but to do so in the face of the Vala of dreams… It felt like blasphemy, for ever had he dreamt of a better life, and though he now felt betrayed once more, he could not find fault in lord Irmo.

“It _hurts_ ,” he simply cried, and his tears fell once again at the solemn nod he received in return.

“Aye, it does, that is true, and you must let it run its course, but not encourage the pain to linger, for your spirit is stronger than you believe.”

“How can that be?”

“You will come to see it in time,” came the easy answer. “Come, let me show you.”

* * *

And so it was that while Erestor’s body lay sleeping at the bottom of a gorge in the Echoriath in the fading days of the First Age (by the reckoning of the elves), his spirit soared to new heights, unseen by any elf before him.

The Vala Irmo took great care in awakening his spirit each morning, and putting it to gentle rest each night, ensuring that his dreams were filled with fond visions and memories until he opened his eyes and realized none of it was real. Only then would they begin the healing process again another day.

Slowly, Erestor came to accept the reality that his loved ones were gone, and though it seemed the pain would never heal, the acceptance came as a balm to his broken heart. It meant that when he willed his eyes open in the morning, no longer was his first thought to think of the _loss_ of his beloved, but of the shining gold of his hair and the shades of blue that danced in his eyes, for lord Irmo was kind in dreams.

Initially, the sight of Glorfindel as he dreamt brought him _more_ suffering, but as healing came, it brought him joy. Having seen him in person only the once, Erestor came to appreciate the visions as what they were: a chance to know the man he had loved but never met. And when the dreams ceased causing him pain, they began to bring him joy – sometimes too great for a simple night’s rest – and he would awaken to a different sort of mess than his tears.

He’d been ashamed for the lord of dreams to find him in such a state, until he’d realized that he was treated no differently for needing to bathe immediately upon waking in the morning. He had even begun discussing his dreams now that he was comfortable communicating, though he preferred still to avoid the use of words.

In doing so, Erestor was able to better develop his gift of _osanwë_. He’d known that it was within his abilities to do so _before_ the fall, but had never taken the time to learn it properly. To do so now brought him great joy. He felt it brought him closer to his departed family.

It was in this manner of overcoming great struggles with challenges and being rewarded in return with small blessings that Erestor once again came to feel mostly-whole. It was for this reason that lord Irmo then began to teach him, in earnest, more of his secrets, though Erestor took a while to notice it.

They walked the gardens then, day and night, studying the flowers – which Erestor learned to name individually, and in each language he spoke. They studied the stars and the skies – which Erestor learned to use to tell the passing of time and the changing of seasons. They studied the creatures that made their homes within the gardens, and those without – which Erestor greeted as friends and whom he thanked for his meals, which he shared in offering to the lord of visions.

There came times when Erestor felt the wound on his heart begin to tear open again, but he knew now how to care for it himself, and was able to do so in a timely manner, so that he might quickly return to his lessons with lord Irmo.

And yet, in no time at all, the gardens began to darken, but not with the winds and snow of winter. It was darker still, like nighttime but just after sunrise – _unnatural_. And finally the reason for it appeared. A dark figure on the horizon, quickly approaching, which at first Erestor mistook for Morgoth, until Irmo placed a gentle hand on his back and stood still, patient, _waiting_.

When the figure came into the clearing where they stood, Erestor at once understood, and felt sadness and shame at his judgement, for truly, who could judge but the judge himself, who stood now before him in silence.

Erestor knelt down and bowed his head, feeling so desperately unworthy of being in the presence of the Fëanturi given his quick judgements, but Námo spoke.

“Stand child, and _see_.”

And so Erestor stood and saw them both together. Opposites they were, one dark and one light, and yet, two halves of a whole. He could see that now, for despite their difference in colouring, their features were the same. Much did Erestor understand now, simply from seeing them.

Healers they both were, truly, though in different forms, and suddenly it made sense to him that he visited with lord Irmo, for certainly Glorfindel’s soul resided in the Halls of Mandos now, where he would heal in his own time as well.

“I see,” Erestor said, and they nodded to him, before Námo continued.

“You _see_ , but you look to close,” his words hung in the air and seemed to echo, and Erestor understood why each lord was named for the places of their residing, for where Irmo went visions and dreams of a million colours followed, and where Námo stood, so too did the darkness and vast emptiness of his halls.

“You _see_ , but do not see your end, for your time has yet to come,” Námo explained. “You have rested too long, but I have not come to claim you, for you have no place in my halls.”

And Erestor’s eyes widened, for he’d nearly forgotten how this had all felt like a dream, once upon a time. Now reminded, he felt a cold he hadn’t noticed before, like the frosted air that comes before the first snowfall. It surrounded him and his lips began to tremble.

 _I am not ready for this, no_ , Erestor admitted, gazing up at the tall forms, _but neither am I ready to return, for I have learned much, and more importantly, learned that there is much yet I do not know._

Námo shook his head, and the movement caused his robes to sway, bringing Erestor’s attention to the way they seemed to fade out of reality at the seams, “You are not ready, but you must,” the great judge knelt before him, “You have learned much, and are healed as much as dreams can do.”

“Aye,” _yet if I wake,_ Erestor persisted, _How then will I learn all that I still wish to?_

And Námo understood then, that this boy, this young elf, would be utterly devoted to the well of knowledge that had been sprung within him. “In your dreams, young one, you will learn. You will see all that you wish, and your memories will awaken again within you.”

Erestor did not understand what hidden meaning the words held, but accepted that his refusal to awaken would not be accepted much longer. “I will wake, then, lords, if you would but give me purpose,” the words left his lips before he’d realized his intention to speak them, “For I have no one left to love and to live for in all of Middle-Earth, and I would do your bidding, if you wish it.”

A moment of silence, and a long glance was shared between the Fëanturi, words exchanged within their minds, until finally both nodded and turned back to Erestor, mirror images of each other, kneeling and reaching out with one hand each to take his.

“We would ask very little of you, sweet child,” lord Irmo spoke, “only that you heal.”

“This will take time and effort and require a lot of struggle of your part,” lord Námo continued, “but you will see it done.”

And though Erestor yet had questions, and though he opened his mouth to speak them, it seemed suddenly as though they were very far away, and fading from his sight. He tried to reach out to them but found that his arm moved as though he were underwater. He tried calling out, but it seemed his voice caught in his throat. He tried to step forward, but found his feet rooted to the ground.

He tried to look around himself, but found that his vision was failing, and all was turning to darkness, all encompassing, but warm…

_Warm…_


	5. Chapter 5

When he awoke, Erestor found he was sore – _very sore_ – and could not move for the better part of an hour as he could not get his muscles to cooperate with him. Upon finally looking down at himself, he understood why.

He was still lying at the root of the Echoriath, though as he understood it now, much time had passed.

In the pre-dawn light, with what little of the stars he could see, Erestor could tell that _years_ even had passed, while he slept and unnaturally deep sleep. How his body had not been found or recovered, he knew not, but then…

 _I shouldn’t be alive after sleeping that long,_ he thought to himself, clenching and unclenching his fists, and lifting and lowering his toes, trying to get his blood circulating again and his muscles to _move_ again.

Erestor noticed then that it was warm also, and he wondered for a moment if this was the warmth he had felt as he faded away from the gardens of Lórien. _Ai_ , what a dream that had been, and he wept to remember all he had learned, for surely if he’d forgotten, he’d have awakened in as much pain as…

 _Twelve years ago_ , the thought came to him, and _how_ he wasn’t certain, but he suspected his new lords might have something to do with that.

 _What to do now?_ He wondered, for although they had bid him to _heal_ they had hardly indicated what or _whom_.

Was he to heal only himself? That seemed far too simple. Was he to heal the land? He sat up with some effort and looked around the valley. Dark, it was, and without grass as though it had finally given up on growing through the harsh conditions of the north after the fall of its beloved city. No, that would be too much to ask of one elf alone. Was he to heal others? That would be _impossible_ for him to accomplish, as all those who were left, we left without life.

 _No,_ Erestor thought, _I shall heal, as they said. In all that I do and all that I say, to myself and to others, within and without. All who seek shelter shall find it with me. All who seek light and repose shall find it with me. All who seek knowledge and understanding and peace of mind and body shall find it with me. This I swear._

And though he hesitated to speak the words – he knew the stories – he offered them in silence to they who watched over him.

* * *

When Erestor could finally stand, he decided to take a walk through the ruins of the old city. As he made to start towards it however, a reflection of gold caught his eye, and he knelt beside the spot he’d been sleeping, to find a single, _fragile_ , strand of golden hair.

Tears sprung to his eyes as he reached forth and took it in hand. Gently he held it in his fist and closed his eyes, face up to the heavens, and offered his sincerest thanks again to the Fëanturi, for this was a part of his heart he had never expected to see again.

His first mission within the city, then, was to locate some sort of item he could store the hair in to keep it safe, and an object came to mind, though he was nearly certain it would be gone now.

Erestor tried to shut his eyes to the shapes of his people still littering the streets, but found that he felt not _horror_ at seeing them, but a strange melancholic sort of peace. A peace born of _knowing_ – he knew they were all in a better place, in the caring hands of Mandos.

Slowly, calmly, he made his way to the fields of his home, surprised to find that some of the crops had endured, some squash, potato – tough, hardy, willing to grow in harsh conditions – until finally he reached the door to the small home he had once shared with his grandfather. He hesitated before opening the door, but at once, the same peace he’d felt crossing the market suffused him again.

There were moths and butterflies all over the house, the roof was gone, as were most of the walls, but the hearth remained and he smiled to think his guides had sent these visitors to him. Going to the bedroom that had once been occupied by Valóron, Erestor knocked, a silly notion, but it felt right, it was not his space after all. And although he received no reply – as anticipated – he let himself in and went to the chest at the foot of the broken bed. In it Erestor immediately found what he was looking for and was left all the more surprised by it.

There was a ring, his grandfather had worn from time to time, which opened like a locket, and held several hairs within. He had explained one day that they belonged to his lover and to Erestor’s own father – though it was taken in his early childhood, and at Erestor’s insistence, Valóron had eventually added one of his own. He opened the ring very slowly so as not to cause the hairs to fall out, should they have stuck in part to the top of the locket.

That was luckily not the case, and he was awed to find that all three were still present: black, brown, and the soft downy hair of a young child. Erestor closed the top for just a moment, placing the ring on his middle finger, before rolling up the golden hair – both tightly and loosely – around his littlest finger, and reopening the locket to place it delicately within, at home, with Erestor’s family.

* * *

And so, finally, Erestor set about wandering the city and pulling the victims of his blindness from the rubble. He _saw_ now, more than he ever could have before, and while the betrayal he had suffered and inadvertently given to his most treasured people still snapped at his heels, he _healed._

He could feel it.

The air in the city of stone was lighter now than it had ever been.

Erestor knew not all their names, but as he placed them each in the merchants’ cart he had found and brought them down the causeway to the fields of Tumladen and lay them on the ground, he did so reverently, with each touch and movement intended to erase what pain he could in their bodies, while their souls rested.

One by one, he brought them to the valley, and though he could not _possibly_ bury so many in a day, with what was left of his own straw mattress and what hardy vegetables were left in the fields, Erestor survived for several weeks. It was harsh work, as Námo had said it would be. He struggled, but he persevered, and in the end, all of his people, all those who had suffered by his hand, however unknowingly, were laid to rest in the fields.

* * *

Upon the next morning, after the 10th week, Erestor awoke to a ray of sunlight in his eyes, and began to search the city for supplies in earnest. He searched many houses and shops and collected some clothes – lighter outfits than he used to wear to work as seneschal, and remembering the mess he was wearing, immediately changed – and a large travelling pack. He found in some of the old shops small containers which could be used to carry smaller fruit – such as the strawberries he had seen running amok through what used to be the tower of the king. How they came to grow there, Erestor wondered, but ultimately was grateful for them.

Two skins he found in the old palace guards’ quarters, which he would use to carry water. A bow also, he took, for he might have need to hunt, and though he was unskilled at it, he would be best armed, than weaponless in the wilds of Beleriand.

It wasn’t long before he had a pack with a change of trousers and a shirt, filled with potatoes and apples and all else he could think of that he would need on his journey – to where, he could only imagine – and Erestor was surprised to find that he was… _Excited?_

 _Aye, after so long,_ Erestor felt joy and happiness and excitement. There was fear also, of course, for he knew not where he was headed other than _south_ nor did he know if he would be lucky enough to make it without encountering any unsavoury folk. Yet his heart was light, and with his pack ready, his new box on his back, and one very small wooden box left in his hand, Erestor began his journey, with the sun high in the sky.

He recalled, from many years ago where the path had been, to cross the Echoriath to enter the valley, and there he headed. Though he wandered slightly, Erestor saw after a while, a mound of stone, covered in yellow flowers, and a frown came over his features. What could it possibly be?

And then as he approached, he understood.

Celandine.

 _Glorfindel_.

This was his test.

_Would he be able to leave him and move on?_

In his heart, Erestor knew the answer to be no. He would never find another. And yet, he knew also that Glorfindel was safe. That he had been cared for, and _was_ cared for, in the hands of Mandos. And so, with one last sigh, Erestor placed one hand to where he thought Glorfindel’s head might be, and pressed a kiss to the stone.

He almost walked away then, but a breeze passed over the valley, and caused the flowers on Glorfindel’s grave to dance. And so with delicate hands, and the skills of gardening he had learned from his grandfather and Glorfindel and lord Irmo himself, Erestor scooped up a handful of earth from the ground and placed it in the small wooden container he still held, only to pry one very small flower – only just blooming – from between the stones of Glorfindel’s grave and placed it in the earth within the box.

Glorfindel was gone, but his spirit was strong, and with the small reminders of him he had been blessed with, Erestor would press on, and maybe one day, they would meet again in the undying lands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End.
> 
> For now.


End file.
